One Image, Several Writers, Daily Words. The site about Interpretation, Inspiration and Improvisation.

Lenore

“What do you mean? Because October’s my favorite month and that was the last Saturday, thereby giving me the most time to prepare. And anyway we had awesome costumes the next day: the vampire bride and her walking-dead groom? Hot. And? Easy.”

“Right. So you chose the date of your wedding so as to have easy – and obvious, mind you – Halloween costumes. Huh. Yeah. Wow. Etcetera.”

“Yes, ma’am. I am special. Unique, even.”

“Just like everyone else.”

“You think you’re making fun of me but I’ve already beat you to it! Trust me, girl, I have long since beat you to it.”

“Anyway, my point is, Halloween is ruined now.”

“Well, it’s not really. I mean, it sort of is, but it isn’t really. Just because I eventually couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him – let alone the same bed – doesn’t mean that particular Halloween wasn’t great, because it was. And anyway that’s what we’re doing here.”

“Hush, you. Anyway, we have candles, and we have incense, and we have the grave of one bona fide witch. All the perfectly perfect ingredients for… whatever.”

“Yeah, about that. Witch? Says who? I mean ‘says who other than whoever burnt all these candles here and left the poor thing’s eternal resting place covered in little waxy stubs?’ because it’s just kind of your standard old grave here, seems to me.”

“Read her headstone, doofus. And anyway everyone says she’s buried with her feet to the rising sun and you know what that means.”

“Wait, what? No, I don’t know what that means. Are you trying to tell me that all the corpses in all the graves all over the world are planted facing the exact same direction? Except for this one? And maybe the occasional random witch in every other goddamn dumbass down? And about half the population of Salem, Massachusetts? And anyway, who says she’s buried backwards? And why should we believe them? And how would they know? And why should we believe them, again? Because I’m stuck on that, you may have noticed. The ‘why should we believe them’ bit.”

“Did you read the gravestone?”

“I read it. Of course I read it. I carefully investigated each puny shred of witchy evidence you’ve proffered. I read it, and I know it. It’s a poem.”

“By Edgar Allen Poe.”

“It’s about a woman who died.”

“He wrote The Raven.”

“It’s not about a witch.”

“It’s Poe. Doubly dead, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, huh?”

“Don’t be dumb.”

“I’m not being dumb. Don’t be a bitch. Just…Jesus, did you hear something?”

“Brother. No I didn’t hear something. Whatever. Just…go light your fucking incense and do… whatever you plan on doing so we ca–.”

“Shhh! Did you hear that? Like a scraping sound? Or a whispering sound? Or… I don’t know what sort of sound.”

“Cute. Let’s just go, okay? Let’s finish, and– wait, do you mean that? What was that?”